


The Crawl

by Pixeled



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Before Crisis
Genre: M/M, Obsession, One Shot, hojo week, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: Based on Placebo’s “The Crawl”, for Hojo Week.





	The Crawl

His eyes are on his from the ground up.

He’s obsessed. With this moment, with him. Everything. 

He’s allowed him into his dark space where everyone seems to vanish away and only this moment remains. 

His look withers. His passing fascination is gone. The air is steely gray like the tubes that surround them.

Fuhito is a fugitive of love, of obsession. He’s marveled at this man for ages, and now here he is, head throbbing like a heart, the heart he spurned away so very long ago. His glasses are stripped away and he can see shapes, those dark dark eyes trained on him. 

He’s forced to crawl between those legs, to look up at him with trained eyes, and he’s kissing up the inside of his clothed thighs. It doesn’t matter, his life’s work, now, his trained science. All that matters is not losing face at this stranger’s place at the altar of depravity. 

He doesn’t know how he got here, how he was made to crawl, but he does know he’s lost in those eyes, and he’s got his glasses fogged with the force of their earlier kisses, heated with something like passion, though it’s not quite that. 

He thought coming here that he’d show off his life’s work, his obsession, but what he shows is his heated lips, his own dark eyes filled with adoration. 

He doesn’t know how he got on his knees, but he doesn’t care. He has no control. He’s fired up. 

Hojo has left a mark on the best part of him, the part which he hides. He’s offered it up easily, gone down so easily. 

One minute they’re discussing science, the next he’s kissing him so hard he can’t slow it down. He’s in his wake, in his hands, and nothing is understood. His every day revolves around his sun. He fires him up, and everything is intense because of that fire. Obsession and admiration matters not here, and he’s opening up his pants, drawing him out, licking up the fire heat of his soul. He didn’t know he would be here, but it feels right even if it is wrong. And he has no bag of tricks. Nothing to help him not lose face or faith. 

Lay me down to crawl, he thinks, he does. And in the aftermath he’s sucking, sprawled before him, his soul laid bare. Cold bodies suspended in Mako are their audience, their eyes like shivs ready to plunge. 

He’d been so calm on the phone, when he first arrived, but now his heart is pounding in his temples. He draws him in, and everything is more intense because of that fire, that cold fire. 

Hojo pulls at his hair, makes it a mess across his face, stuck to his lips, and his demons are laid bare. 

He believes he is led to places he’s not supposed to be, but here he is, and Hojo is breathing harshly in his ears, even his passion cold and calculated. 

When he’s done, he talks of figures and tucks himself back in, and nothing is the same, but it is. This obsession is just the beginning.

And the fire rages on, although it’s put out by the simple squashing extinguisher of his voice. 

This was nothing, he knows. A passing fancy, a manipulation of obsession. 

He’s made to crawl away, to fumble for his glasses, and when it’s over he stumbles to find common ground. 

And there are no more kisses. No more secrecy. Just the cold fire of his eyes. He feels his chest but can’t find his heart, and that’s their main similarity. Fuhito has no heart, but he loves with his pounding temples, his heated glasses. He loves Hojo, even though it’s not advised. 

And that is their difference. 

Hojo does not love him, he only has a passing fancy. His obsession is himself. His work. And Fuhito has an obsession with his work too, but it’s different. He’d give it all up for a chance at Hojo’s still beating heart, which he cannot find even though it’s clearly there. 

Fuhito watches Hojo watch him die later, and it’s like how it was in his lab. Those eyes, so cold, process everything without moving. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t chide, but he feels it in the air.

When he’s dead, he knows he won’t pity him, and yet his passing fancy makes his heart swell. 

He crawls, lays himself down, and dies with those eyes on his. It takes the pain away, but could not make him stay. And his bag of tricks is laid bare. He thinks of when he thought they were the same. 

He knows now they are not.


End file.
